


Just a Fool (Whose Luck Has Turned)

by BuckytheDucky



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky makes it better, Clint makes a fool of himself, M/M, Second-Hand Embarrassment, poor pizza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9945749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/BuckytheDucky
Summary: Clint makes a fool of himself over the comms during a mission, going into vivid detail of everything he feels for Barnes. Embarrassment makes him hide away, until Barnes forces him to come clean about everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [WinterHawk MiniBang](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/WinterhawkBigBang) and is my first ever participation in a Bang. ^-^ 
> 
> The wonderful [PlaidHunters](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaidHunters) created this beautiful [cover art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9949232) for this fic, and I couldn't be happier! Thank you!  
>  
> 
> This was also titled as _Clint fucks up and says some things he shouldn't but Bucky makes it better(;_ because well...it was a great working title...

The ground is cold and hard beneath his belly, but the skies are thankfully clear. Winter has been creeping in lately, spitting wet flakes or freezing rain in ever-changing patterns; though he’s made the shot more than once while burrowed in four-plus feet of snow, or a torrential downpour that soaked him to the bone and left him feeling cold for days, those aren’t exactly circumstances he enjoys repeating. His eyes scan over the area, catching quick glimpses of his team spread out in the shadows – all waiting for a signal. He grins to himself when Natasha flashes him a raised middle finger without even glancing in his direction.

The only person missing from sight is Bruce, but Clint knows it’s for the best: They can’t risk having a giant, raging, green monster in their midst before he’s needed. So Banner stayed on the Quinjet while the rest made their way to their places. Thor is in the sky, eyes focused on the dark building, Mjölnir at the ready. Steve is behind an enormous tree with his shield already in position, while Sam makes tight circles in the air just above the trees. Natasha is undeniably terrifying in the way she hides without trying to hide; her gaze is cold, calculating, as it flicks around their surroundings. Tony stands in the Iron Man armour ten feet away from her, arc reactor covered by a some sort of built-in cloaking device so the brilliant blue glow doesn’t give away his position. Though Clint can’t see him, he knows Barnes is a dark figure among the shadows of night. Clint can see, in  his mind, the way Barnes stands still as a statue, weapon relaxed in his grip but not lowered, as his sharp grey-blue eyes catalogue the scene.

Barnes has only been on five ops with the team; the first three were quick, flawless, and against HYDRA bases in the States; there had been minimal mess, and the only signs of life in the warehouses had been scientists and low-level guards. All in all, they were completely unsatisfying missions for everyone involved – including the idiots working for HYDRA. The fourth one was in a small country with no official ties to any other country. Their government had requested through secure channels that the Avengers take care of the “issue.” Though the officials insisted on not being completely dependent on outside help through import/export deals or military alliances, they didn’t want what loyalty they had between other countries to be destroyed by HYDRA being in the country, holding a base of operations within the borders, and sullying the country’s image for outsiders. At the foreign adviser’s urging, the mission had been a quiet, “in-out” event; no buildings were destroyed, and the civilians were none the wiser about the fascist organisation or the fact it was taken out. Those four ops had seen a manic glee in Barnes’s eyes as he systematically took out any and all HYDRA agents that got in his way. Steve had worried over his best friend’s mental stability, but Clint understood the way that Barnes was so eager to inflict as much pain as possible on the ones who broke him for so long, the joy he took in cutting off their terrified babbles of useless trigger words and pathetic pleas of _please don’t it wasn’t my fault they made me don’t you understand?_ Honestly, Clint still wants to do the same to that bastard Loki.

The last time Barnes was in the field, it was to fight an army of twelve-foot-tall teddy bears, animated by a ten-year-old girl who was bullied for the last three years of her life; she’s now in the care of Professor Xavier and, by all accounts, dealing with life and her newfound powers quite well. Clint still can’t find it in him to be angry at her for lashing out, even though being suffocated with giant, fuzzy arms isn’t how he ever envisioned his life ending.

“Five minutes.”

At Steve’s words, a stream of affirmatives flow through the comms, and Clint shifts until he’s slightly more comfortable on the frozen ground. He reaches up with one hand, thumbing off his comm’s mic before double-checking on the team. Nobody has moved from their places – except Barnes. He’s stepped forward in preparation of the impending raid. In the pale light of the crescent moon, his metal arm gleams dimly; Natasha’s head turns minutely, her eyes catching briefly on Clint’s nest as if she knows his attention is elsewhere. He can almost hear her less-than-subtle suggestion that Clint just _talk_ to Barnes.

“‘Talk to him, dumbass, tell him how you feel,’” he mimics as he wrenches his gaze away from Barnes and back to the warehouse. “Yeah, because it’s just that simple, Tasha. Just walk right up to him and say ‘Hey, Barnes, hold still so I can plant one on ya, maybe even take you to bed if you’d be cool with that.’ No, thanks. Making a fool of myself surprisingly isn’t my favourite pastime.

“‘Oh, shut up, Clint, you never know. He could feel the same.’

“Yeah, right. I’m… _me_ , and he’s amazing. Have you _seen_ his eyes? That body? He’s smart and funny and strong and, God, those lips. And yes, I’m aware of how much I sound like a damn schoolgirl with her first crush on the bad boy intent on destroying her innocence. But do I care? Obviously not, or I’d have done something about this a long time ago. Well, something to stop this attraction, anyway.”

He sighs, scanning the dark again; his mental countdown tells him there are three minutes, twenty-seven seconds to go. A flash of silver catches Clint’s attention, and a soft groan tears from his throat as he watches the way Barnes shifts. Clint’s mouth is suddenly dry.

“Oh, Jesus, you are going to be the death of me, Barnes, I swear to God. Seriously, my obit is going to read ‘Clint died because his brain exploded, cause of death was James Barnes merely _breathing_ , and Clint’s poor brain couldn’t handle the purely sexual, filthy images and fantasies.’ No joke. Thank God mind-reading isn’t a talent on this team, because nobody needs to know about _those_ thoughts. It’s bad enough that I can’t stop having them. I never want to know what Nat would say if she found out how often I imagine you coming to my apartment, forcing me to my knees and giving me permission to suck your cock, making me choke over and over again until you come down my throat – which I’d be a good boy by swallowing it down and _enjoying_ it. Then you’d follow me to my bed where you’d fuck me so hard and so long that I can’t walk straight for a week. I wonder if your refractory period is anything like Steve’s… Yeah, I definitely wonder that a lot. Damn Stark for showing me the Rebirth papers.”

“I feel so stupid right now, but maybe telling this to, well, no one but the air might help.” When his gaze flicks to the metal arm again, Clint bites his lip, tightens his grip on his bow, wills away the uncomfortable erection; perhaps talking to the night about his dirty fantasies right before a mission is a bad idea, but Clint can’t honestly say he’s ever claimed to be Bearer of Brilliant Plans. He forces his eyes to focus on the warehouse. _Two minutes until go._ “Ya know, I don’t even have an obsession for your metal arm – not like Stark. I swear that man would kill for a chance to examine it. But… Well, if I’m being honest with myself, that arm is the star of a few fantasies. I mean, you don’t touch anybody with it, except for when we’re training, and even then, you try to avoid contact as much as possible. So I guess it’d make sense that I’d fantasise about exactly what it would feel like for you to run your metal fingers all over my body, stroking my cock as your mouth sucks on my balls, opening me up so fucking slow that I nearly go insane, leaving bruises as you hold me still so you can fuck harder. Hell, I’d let you go bare just so I can feel those fingers pushing your come back inside. I –”

“ _Jesus fuck,_ Barton, that’s a very vivid picture you’re painting with your filthy mouth.”

Clint will deny to his dying day that he squeaked when Tony’s words sounded on the comms (though he totally did), but he can't deny the fact his erection wilts rapidly, and Clint’s left with a little bit of sexual frustration and a whole lot of mortification. His cheeks are burning with a hot flush, limbs shaking, as he slams his face into the hard ground beneath him. Thankfully, Steve’s “Captain America is talking, so listen up” voice cuts in before anyone can say anything else (except Clint can _totally_ hear the laughter in his voice, shut up, Steve).

“On my mark.”

Clint slips into Hawkeye mode at the signal as everyone leaps into action. Hulk bounds from the ‘jet with a loud roar, lending his brute strength to the fight. Though the building and surrounding area erupt into an explosion of light and heat, and a flurry of motion, he keeps an eye on his teammates, offering colourful commentary and arrows in painful places when the AIM scum get too close. He watches Natasha disappear into the building, hears Steve curse when another explosion rocks the compound. Clint knows Nat can take care of herself, but she isn't indestructible – if she gets caught in a blast, she'll die. And as frustrating as she can be, she's the closest to family Clint’s had for so damn long. Losing her would kill him. So it's with icy fear in his veins and a racing heart in his chest that he continues loosing arrows at the final wave of thugs while keeping a sharp eye out for a flash of her red hair or a glimpse of her ivory skin. Thankfully, it isn't long before she slips back into the fight, taking down opponent after opponent like she hadn't disappeared at all.

Thor’s lightning hits Steve’s shield, sending a shockwave through the last cluster. Thuds sound as bodies fall, unconscious, to the frozen ground. Clint breathes a sigh of relief once his teammates are all accounted for. Steve starts calling for confirmation of life before switching to the secure channel for SHIELD. Tony lands gracefully beside Steve; for reasons Clint doesn't understand, the two of them have taken to talking privately between the end of an op and cleanup. Nat gets Hulk to let Dr Banner out to play as Sam flies a blanket and protein bars from the Quinjet. Barnes quickly examines his pistol and knives; apparently satisfied, he stows the weapons in their holsters before turning toward Clint’s nest. _Clint_ , because Hawkeye has been pushed back into the box in the furthest corner of his mind, avoids meeting Barnes’s gaze, ducks his head, and collapses his bow. He waits until he hears the telltale sound of incoming SHIELD agents then scurries down from his spot on the taller hilltop, letting himself get lost in the flood of agents assigned to cleanup duty.

“Barton, report.”

Clint winces at the sharp command. “Well, uh, Cap, I’m, um, helping with cleanup. Don’t worry, I’ll be home before midnight.” He takes a look around at the debris and knocked-out bodies. “Better make that a little later.”

“Are you sure?”

“Let him, Cap,” suggests Natasha as she gathers up the last of Clint’s arrows, and Steve’s sigh is barely audible.

“Okay. Debrief in the morning.”

“Roger.”

Clint thumbs off his comm’s mic again, making sure he hears the soft click as it switches to his hearing aids. “Fuck.”

By the time the area is clear, Clint is shivering, and his body is numb from the exposure to freezing temperatures. Coulson has been giving him questioning looks for the last four hours, but Clint’s ignored the obvious curiosity. He allows Coulson to steer him onto one of the Quinjets waiting just beyond the perimeter, allows Skye and FitzSimmons to ask questions about his life as an Avenger, allows his old handler to flick inquisitive glances in his direction. The embarrassment is still too fresh, so his quips fall flat more often than not. This fact alone is enough to make Coulson’s expression twist into concern. Clint knows the senior agent will most likely text Natasha for information.

Clint directs Melinda May away from the tower; she raises a thin, dark brow but doesn’t question his request. The ‘jet sets down gently on the roof of a bank a couple of blocks away from a subway entrance, and Clint says a quick, but no less grateful, thanks and goodbye, moving swiftly to disembark before any more inquiries can be asked; unfortunately, Coulson follows closely behind, his footsteps light on the metal ramp. Clint stop walking once they’re about twenty feet away, turns to his former handler with a quirked eyebrow.

“Is there a reason you’re following me, Sir?”

Coulson has the decency to look faintly apologetic. “Are you okay, Agent Barton?”

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You helped with the cleanup, willingly and without complaint. You requested that Agent May not drop you off at the tower where you reside, and your jokes, while terrible on a normal day, are even worse and have been delivered with very little of your usual enthusiasm.” Coulson glances away, gaze taking in their surroundings. “You don’t have to spill your guts to me, but… Please, be honest: Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Sir, I’m fine. See ya ‘round, Coulson.”

“Stay out of trouble, Barton.”

Clint doesn’t dignify that statement with a response beyond his customary smirk, before hitching his quiver further onto his back and walking away. The Quinjet takes off with a quiet roar. He watches it disappear, stops beneath a tree, and examines his equipment and clothing for any tracking devices. Upon finding none, he continues his trek.

 

Clint goes to debrief at SHIELD headquarters the next morning like he was ordered to, then spends the next three days in the rundown apartment no one, not even Natasha, knows about. It’s quiet, and the silence has reached the point of loneliness, but he’s alone and doesn’t have to be reminded of his most embarrassing mistake yet. He’d sent a text to Natasha while walking out of SHIELD HQ after his debrief with Coulson and Steve, letting her know he was fine and just needed some time. He’s very aware of the (likely) possibility of her kicking his ass for turning off his phone and taking it apart, before she replied.

Being back in the apartment hasn’t been easy; the same people live in the same flats, and they’ve all been curious as to the reason for his sudden reappearance. His response is the same for every time he’s asked: “Vacation from work.” Thankfully, they don’t pry further, just wish him the best and leave covered dishes at the door.

Clint stops on the stoop outside of the building, kicking at the door until the little brats from 2D get their butts off the rickety stairs and open the door for him. Lily smiles toothily at him, and he promises to save a few pieces of the triple-cheese pizza if she stays being adorable. The four-year-old giggles, runs after her brothers, and leaves Clint alone in the lobby. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of old Mr Jenkins’s television blaring some game show, Lily and her siblings running along the corridor on the second floor, the new baby in 4A crying and screaming amidst the shouting of his parents. Clint smiles to himself before heading up the stairs. His history in the circus comes in handy when he comes to a stop outside his fourth-floor apartment, not even struggling to balance the pizza boxes and garlic bread in one hand as he fishes his keys from his pocket with the other. The lock sticks momentarily, but he jiggles the key with familiarity until he hears the telltale slide and soft click.

The air in his flat smells like stale coffee with an undertone of the Chinese food he’d eaten for breakfast. Clint nudges the door shut with his foot, groans, and opens the door to pull his keys from the lock. He tosses them onto the table in the entry hall and makes his way toward the living room. With a barely-concealed squeak, he jerks to a stop, ignoring the way the paper bag holding the garlic breads skids off the top pizza box and falls to the floor.

“Uh… What are you doing here?”

Barnes doesn’t even glance away from the television as he shrugs. “I think we need to talk.”

 _And here comes the part where you tell me I made you all uncomfortable and I should stay away for a while,_ Clint thinks but doesn't say. Instead, he manages to rasp out, “About what?”

“About the other night.”

“Right. Yeah. Look, I can explain that. I… It was stupid of me to talk about that shit the way I did, but in my defence, I thought my comm was off. So… Can we please forget it happened?”

This time, Barnes turns to look at him, and Clint is immediately arrested by the sight of sharp, clear grey-blue eyes under dark, furrowed brows, of perfectly kissable lips pursed with confusion. Neither man speaks for a long moment; Clint’s heart starts rabbiting beneath his ribs the longer Barnes stares at him. The former-assassin’s face is unreadable, which, quite frankly, terrifies Clint: He doesn't know what Barnes might say or do, has not enough of a clue to make an educated guess. When the silence has stretched uncomfortably long enough, Clint nearly gives into his urge to break the awkward quiet, but stops himself before the words spill out between his teeth, by biting down on his lower lip.

“Don't bite your lip,” admonishes Barnes as he climbs to his feet. “I want to do that.”

A low, confused whine escapes Clint when Barnes – _Bucky_ – crosses the room suddenly and presses his mouth to Clint’s without warning. The sound of pizza boxes hitting the hardwood floor goes ignored as Clint presses closer, wraps both arms around Bucky’s neck. He hisses in pain when the corner of the wall digs into his back; Bucky pulls away slowly, catching Clint’s bottom lip between his teeth and nipping gently.

“Did you mean it?”

It takes a minute, but Clint succeeds in fighting through the onslaught of hazy lust. “Mean –? Oh. Yeah, yeah, absolutely, one hundred percent. Everything and more.”

“Good, that's real good.”

Words abandon Clint as Bucky kisses him again, harder and more demanding. Clint’s knees go weak at the insistent press and dance of Bucky's tongue against his. He can hear the hitch in Bucky’s breathing, relishes in the soft moan when he slips a thigh between Bucky’s.. The back of his head thumps against the wall, and he arches his neck to give Bucky more room to bite and suck along his throat. Before his brain catches up, he's forced onto his knees, staring up at Bucky.

“Do you really want to?” Bucky gestures toward his groin at Clint’s puzzled look, and Clint instantly tracks the motion to see that Bucky's already hard, already straining against his jeans. “If you want’a, ya gotta ask nicely, sweetheart.”

Clint swallows down his whimper, but he can't stop himself from nudging his nose along the hard length. “Can – can I suck your cock? Please? I promise to make it so good for you. Please let me suck you. _Please_.”

“How bad do you want to?”

“God, _fuck_ , I've wanted to for a long time.”

“Well, who am I to deny you of what you want. Go ahead, baby. I'm yours.”

Clint makes quick work of unbuttoning Bucky’s jeans, dragging down the zipper, and pulling both denim and cotton boxer-briefs down to the middle of his thighs. Bucky grins, a seductive twist to his lips, when Clint freezes at the sight of his dick standing proudly away from his body; flushed a dark red, it’s long, thick, and Clint can't recall ever seeing such a perfect cock. The tip glistens with drops of precome, and Clint’s tongue darts out to get a taste, eliciting a rough groan from above. Clint takes a deep breath, leans forward, and wraps his lips around the tip. Fingers twist in his hair, holding his head steady, as Bucky's hips jerk forward. Clint’s head spins from both arousal and lack of oxygen, but he forces his gag reflex into submission. He loops his arms around Bucky’s thighs, pulls him closer, moans as the cock in his mouth taps against the back of his throat. A whirring noise catches his attention, and he glances up through his lashes to see Bucky curving slightly over him, left forearm braced against the wall. With a soft moan, Clint lets himself get lost in the taste, the heavy weight, the sounds falling from Bucky’s lips.

His jaw is aching by the time Bucky speaks.

“Are you gonna be good and swallow what I give you?”

Clint nearly comes then, just from the unsteady, gritty quality to Bucky's voice, but he taps out _yes_ in Morse on the back of one of Bucky’s thighs, since his mouth is too preoccupied for speaking, and Bucky lets out a growl that sends a zing of undiluted want straight to Clint’s own cock. Bucky cradles Clint’s head with both hands, his grip a shade below painful, and Clint relaxes his jaw, opens his mouth wider, allows Bucky to fuck his face. Bucky’s words are too soft for Clint to make out, but the words aren't important, not with Bucky tensing, not with the pulses of hot come splashing down his throat, not with Bucky trembling from his orgasm above him. Clint is too lost in the haze of arousal to care about anything other than the fact that Bucky’s _here_ , his cock is still in Clint’s mouth, his come in Clint’s stomach.

Finally, Bucky pulls away, and Clint works his jaw until it pops. The ache fades, though he’s so hard, it hurts; soft or not, Bucky’s cock a mere few inches from his face certainly isn’t helping. Bucky drops to his knees, fingers shaking as he reaches out to trace the curve of Clint’s jaw, the line of his jaw.

“You are so amazing, Clint. And… I know I didn’t make you choke over and over, but –”

“I liked it anyway,” whispers Clint; his voice is hoarse, ragged, but he _needs_ to make Bucky understand. “It was perfect. I love having you in my mouth, fucking my face like that. You taste so good, you feel so good, it was perfect.”

Bucky’s smile is blindingly beautiful but short-lived as he leans forward to press a searing kiss to Clint’s lips. “C’mon, doll, lead the way.”

The heat of his hands on Clint’s waist is the only thing keeping Clint grounded as he makes his way to the bedroom. Pale orange light streams through the window from a streetlamp outside, falls across the unmade bed in slivers as it peeks through the blinds. Clint hurries to close them (partly from paranoia, mostly to keep the world outside and keep this between the two of them) before turning to face Bucky. Though he was just on his knees with Bucky’s cock in his mouth, Clint finds that being here in his bedroom with the man he’s fantasised about for months, feels somehow much more intimate.

Bucky must see something on Clint’s face because he crosses the room. His jeans are still unbuttoned where they drape around his waist; his dick is covered again by his underwear. His flesh hand is warm, soft, as it slides around to Clint’s back, pushing underneath his shirt. Cool metal trails along the shell of Clint’s ear, down the side of his neck.

“Do you want –?”

“God yes.”

Bucky smiles, rests his forehead against Clint’s, and huffs out a laugh. But he doesn’t say anything else as he pulls away and helps Clint removes his T-shirt. The fabric falls to the floor with a quiet noise, and Clint’s jeans and boxers follow shortly after. Bucky strips quickly, his clothes joining Clint’s in a pile on the carpet. Clint bites his lip at the expanse of hard muscles and scarred skin in front of him. He knows, even without the discomfort in Bucky’s eyes, that the other man isn’t at ease with having the physical evidence of his trauma on display, but Clint finds the mangled flesh meeting metal to be absolutely beautiful. It’s proof of how strong, resilient, _amazing_ Bucky is – and the fact that Bucky is alive and here with him.

Clint closes the distance between them, his lips dropping gentle kisses to the scars, hand curling around Bucky’s hip. A shiver runs up Bucky’s spine, and he pulls Clint closer. In a fluid movement, he twists until Clint is on the bed, then lowers himself over Clint, resting his weight on his elbows.

“I want to… I want to fuck you.”

“Please, Bucky, please.”

Bucky swallows Clint’s pleas in a hot, hard kiss; his hand stretches out, but Clint loses track of everything but the thigh suddenly between his legs, pressing snugly against his balls. His cock is caught between his belly and Bucky’s hip, and he rocks his hips up to get pressure, friction. He’s been dreaming of this for so long that it’s impossible to play cool now that the time has come.

“The party’s gonna be over before it even starts if you keep that up,” chuckles Bucky as he pulls away.

Clint’s protesting whine turns into a loud yelp when a cool, unyielding digit, slick with lube that Clint realises is what Bucky had been reaching for, slips into him easier than he thought it would. His breath punches out of him when he realises the finger is a metal one; Bucky bites down on Clint’s hip, sucking at the thin skin, as his finger thrusts in and out, loosening the muscles, opening Clint up.

Clint is near tears – he isn’t sure if it’s from frustration at the lack of _enough_ or from the fact he feels like he’s drowning waves of arousal and need – by the time Bucky wipes his fingers clean on the wet wipes Clint leaves in the nightstand drawer with the lube and condoms.

“I need you,” Clint whispers roughly, and Bucky falters in the process of rolling a rubber onto his cock.

“Don’t worry, baby, you got me.”

Within seconds, Bucky is lining himself up and pushing inside. Clint’s back arches as Bucky bottoms out. Each thrust sends sparks through each and every nerve ending in Clint’s body, and he wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist, pulls him impossibly closer. The movement allows a different angle, more friction; Clint lets out a long, low moan as he rolls his hips to meet Bucky thrust for thrust.

It isn’t long before the heat pools in his gut, spills over to flood his entire being. Warmth splashes onto his belly. He feels like he’s floating in the sea, and the feel, the smell, of Bucky above him, _in him_ , is the only thing keeping him anchored, keeping him from drifting away. He hears a soft curse before hands push at his legs, push until his knees are against his chest. Bucky’s pace quicken, his hips snap forward faster and harder, and Clint can’t breathe through the overstimulation, through each rough slide against his prostate, through the suffocation of everything he’s wanted coming true in this tiny bedroom in a rundown building in a shitty neighbourhood.

Clint drags his fingertips across the broad stretch of Bucky’s shoulders, down his arms and chest. Stormy blue eyes focus on his face, and Clint gives a gentle smile. His hand curls around the back of Bucky’s head, fingers threading through the soft dark locks of hair; he pulls Bucky down for a kiss. He feels it the moment Bucky lets go. The kiss loses its frantic edge; muscles go tense; hips push forward once, twice, before stilling against the curve of Clint’s ass. Bucky whispers Clint’s name against his lips, and it’s the sweetest thing Clint has heard in such a long time.

The room is colder when Bucky finally pulls away, and Clint shivers as he’s exposed, no longer covered by the warm body. With a soft chuckle, Bucky removes and disposes of the used condom, cleans himself off with a wet wipe, and leaves the room. Clint can’t find it in himself to panic at the sudden departure; he’s still too high from the rush of his orgasm. He closes his eyes and drifts.

The mattress dips beside him, and his nose fills with the scent of sweat, sex, and _Bucky_. Warm, wet fabric drags against his stomach before shifting lower, along his flaccid cock, balls, and ass. He hears the washcloth land in the laundry basket with a muffled thump, and then Bucky is rearranging Clint’s body until he’s on his left side, shoulder under Bucky’s armpit, chest pressed to Bucky’s ribs. Clint pushes his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck, pressing a soft kiss to the flesh.

Clint is almost asleep, listening to the steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing and the solid beat of his heart, when he jerks to awareness as his brain decides to work again.

“Aw, pizza, _no_.”


End file.
